In The Shadow Of Death
by golden starfish
Summary: Time takes its toll. Angst, HC and a bit of drama.


Status: Standalone story - complete  
Category: Gen, contains Angst, H/C, a bit of drama  
Rating: PG-13  
Paring: NONE

Summary: "You can only fight the battles you can win."  
**Warnings:** brief scenes implying torture, and more than the odd bit of ANGST looks around innocently  
**Spoilers:** Set through Season One, spoilers up to the end of Season One  
Feedback: Yes please! Constructive Criticism is VERY much appreciated.  
Archive:Please do not archive without asking.

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Stargate Atlantis or its characters and have made no money from writing this and will never. **

Author's notes: BIG BIG BIG thanks to my beta, imskysmom. G  
This is my second Atlantis fic, first thing I've ever written of such a length.

* * *

**In The Shadow Of Death**

"You can only fight the battles you can win." – Sheppard (S1 - Letters From Pegasus)

* * *

Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath he stepped through the puddle. Like suddenly rising from the watery depths of a nightmare he emerged blinking into a vast space, the gate room on Atlantis.

* * *

The sun caught the gentle rise and fall of the ocean, threads of silver woven into the surface all the way to the horizon. The ocean's expanse was both liberating and isolating. Until just a few weeks ago they hadn't known there was land on this planet; they had thought they were truly alone. John had often found himself staring at the night's sky and the dark ocean beneath it, feeling so tiny and utterly lost in the vast expanse of space. He looked at the stars wondering which ones had human life on them, wondering vainly if one of them might be Earth. What it was he yearned for he was unsure of, but there where times when sitting out under the stars he would wish to be back on Earth, as despite the pain and trouble there, it was his piece of the universe, the closest thing to a home there had ever been. 

Sipping his drink, he took one last look at the night's ocean before turning to go inside.

* * *

Sheppard's fingers found a thready pulse; he leaned in to see if McKay was breathing, the breath against his cheek and the not-so-smooth rise and fall of his chest confirmed the fact. He unzipped the flak jacket and felt for the wound. The amount of crimson blood that had already soaked the clothing indicated a major injury. Lifting up the shirt he saw the ragged wound, an exit wound. He quickly ripped a field dressing from its pack and pressed it to McKay's stomach. Maintaining the pressure with his left hand, he shifted McKay onto his side to assess how bad the entrance wound on the injured man's back was. He saw the stain of blood, but wiping the skin with a cloth he saw the flesh was intact; there was no entrance wound. John's blood ran cold; this wasn't a bullet wound, this kind of damage was either an exit wound or…, he hesitated as dread filled his mind with the horrific possibilities. What the hell had happened in there? 

Sheppard quickly secured the already soaked bandage around McKay's waist. He was reaching for another when Ford shouted from his nearby position next to the naquadah generator. Sheppard clambered to his feet and grabbed McKay's arm; Ford already had the other one, and they pulled the scientist unceremoniously into underbrush. Never mind the brambles and thorns tearing through the BDUs or his now blood streaked shins, his focus was on McKay, on protecting him and the rest of his team. Teyla who was safely in the underbrush already was joined by Ford and Sheppard dragging the unconscious scientist.

Sheppard heard the sirens signifying the impending explosion wail and with that he threw his body on top of McKay's, trying to shield the unconscious scientist from the heat of the blast. Sheppard felt the shrapnel puncturing his flesh, like molten bullets fired into his back; he felt a new warmth creeping through his BDUs and knew that could only mean one thing.

Looking down he saw the scientist's eyes flickering open, trying to focus as his hands tried to brush off the weight on top of him. His face was creased and contorted with pain, and remembering the stab wound, Sheppard raised himself up with shaking arms to crawl all of five feet away, collapsing face down onto the earth.

And with that he closed his eyes and let his body lay limply against the ground. Sheer exhaustion. A small smile played at his lips, maybe not a smile, relief, definitely relief, McKay was alive, he had a fighting chance. That was what mattered.

* * *

For all the hot air in that man he looked really innocent when he was asleep. Rodney had never been one to even try and pretend to be nice, kind or anything along those lines but it seemed like he'd let his act slip while he slept. John saw Carson heading towards him to usher him out of the infirmary and preemptively rose, acknowledging the doctor with a nod and eye contact before turning and exiting the infirmary. 

John made his way to his favorite balcony, out of the way, somewhere quiet. It was empty as he expected and walking over the balcony rail, leaned his weight against it, letting his arms dangle loosely against the breeze. The setting sun cast a warm red glow over the balcony, and the city far below it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What he wouldn't give for more of this. More of this silence; he'd never thought of silence like that before, like it was a gift. He'd never craved the uneventful but Atlantis did something to you. Here the extraordinary was the daily and the daily had been relegated to once a year.

For a moment he felt a pressure in his mind ease. Rodney was going to be okay, there were no running gun battles, no dubious alliances or acquaintances trying to screw them over. He relished the moment, feeling the warm sunlight cover his face like a thin veil; he didn't try to suppress the smile he felt forming. As he opened his eyes to look to the ocean again he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the city below, and just as quickly as it had formed the sense of calm fled back into the ether. The burden of his newly acquired responsibility was felt anew and left him reeling inside as though he'd been hit.

He'd never enjoyed the mundane, he used to live where the adrenaline was to found, but he found himself continuing to hope all the same that maybe life would be uneventful for a while. Maybe the people of Atlantis would be safe; maybe he wouldn't need to be fighting for life tomorrow.

* * *

The air was silent except for the occasional cry of a bird some distance away echoing through the forest. The silence was un-nerving; this had been a planet full of life, on previous occasions they had been greeted by children playing in the forest. The team made their way through the trees, entering the clearing where the village was nestled. There were signs of battle and immediately Sheppard's heart sank. The village was a ghost town. 

It was as though the forest knew, the piercing cries of the bird a mourning wail. Sheppard signaled to his team to stay alert, although by now everyone had seen enough culled settlements to know what they looked like.

* * *

Relishing the emptiness of the gate room at night, John walked over to the Stargate, letting his fingers trail over its surface as though reading Braille, feeling each carefully placed mark. Looking at his watch, he stopped tracing the symbols and walked back to the steps, and sitting down, pondered the mechanics of its creation. It surprised him that after the length of time they'd already been here, that this thing could still inspire such awe in him. 

He'd recognized some of the symbols, constellations, in the Atlantean night's sky. Watching as the chevrons began to light up and a recon team returned on schedule, John stood up and made his way up the steps to the balcony off the gate room. Tonight was a moonless night, the stars shone bright and steady. It reminded him of his time in Antarctica. The stars shone bright there too, but their twinkling appearance from the earth a result of the pollution in the atmosphere; here on Atlantis they shone continuously, as though they had been painted onto the fabric of the sky.

* * *

He passed through the rugged valleys of the mountains, swift and careful maneuvers in an attempt to avoid any RPGs that may be launched from the hillside; this was hostile territory. He was flying south over through the uplands headed for the desert-like plains of the lower regions. The whole country had a stony feel to it; even the plant's greens seemed dulled by the sheer quantity of bare rock. 

Through another tight valley bend, he emerged into the area above the settlement, a village they had passed over days previously. The air was thick with an acrid black smoke; the fires could be seen still smoldering in the wreckage of the buildings. Sheppard carefully skirted through the plume of smoke, wrestling with the controls to maintain good visibility. Emerging into clear air again he was flying too low. As he gained altitude again he saw the road leading away from the village grow smaller; it was lined with people, most likely the men of the village, the bright uniforms of the soldiers herding them was clear even from this height. Continuing to fly off down the valley, he caught sight of the growing blood pools glistening in the sunlight.

Waking he turned over, his restless nights in Atlantis were plagued with dreams and nightmares. He took time to remind himself that massacre had taken place in long ago, but it did nothing to assuage the clarity of the images in his dreams or dull the red color that stained them to this day.

* * *

Standing in the doorway of the armoury he pondered the array of weapons, the inventory was clear; their supplies of ammo were dwindling, but not dangerously so yet. He saw the small collection of Wraith stunners propped up in the corner, they weren't hard weapons to master. McKay said they were the equivalent of the Goa'uld zat guns, that didn't mean much to John, all he needed to know was that they worked, and didn't need supplies. When they ran out of ammunition, and he knew it was something of the inevitable rather than the hypothetical, this room would become a museum for weapons that were no longer anything but lumps of metal and plastic. He was unsure of what the long term plan had been for the expedition, he hadn't exactly had a chance to ponder the finer details of an extended stay and the nearly indestructible adversary they had found in the Wraith with Sumner before … 

The handful of Wraith stunners they had collected on various ambushes and missions were not enough to provide any kind of protection for the number of personnel on Atlantis. John had discussed these things with Elizabeth on a number of occasions but they never seemed to reach a resolution. The original intention it seemed, was that this would be a fairly short initial exploratory mission, hopefully returning to Earth, but of course they had never factored the ammo consuming Wraith into the equations for supply requirements.

Picking up the P90 and attaching it to his bandolier, John couldn't help but feel a sense of desperation and of being besieged. They would fight to the death to protect Atlantis; they would have no choice but to.

* * *

The shallow angle of the sun cast oblique shadows across the balcony. John caught sight of a shadowy line across Rodney's arm, and realised immediately it was the same place as the wound inflicted by Koyla's men. John felt his heart skip a beat; he knew what it was like for people to stare at the reminders of your battles so he made a conscious effort to move his eyes to meet Rodney's. John saw the anguish there, the dark circle of nightmares that obviously remained, from that, and other recent events. 

John made to try and offer comfort, gently placing his hand on Rodney's shoulder; Rodney smiled a weak smile, but true none the less. Rodney stood silently next to him, raising his beaker to his lips before turning to look at the spectacular sunset. John felt a sense of companionship, there was a warmth in the silence between them that had been missing for a long time. The clouds were radiant, almost luminous with a pinkish glow, starkly separate from the deep lilac blue of the sky. Sipping his drink he wondered how many more nights there would be like this.

* * *

Sheppard stood in a gate room. The walls mixing like liquids, SGC blending with Atlantis, the concrete and ancient architecture was seamless. 

The edges of his vision flickered like a poorly tuned television set, he struggled to grasp full consciousness; it seemed to elude him. He realised he was staring at the ground, mesmerised by the swirling mist that clung to the ground, its motion reminding him of a rolling sea.

A wave of nausea surged through him; he quickly raised his head to see the puddle in the Stargate shimmering, mesmerising ripples flitting across its surface. Unsure he turned and looked toward where the Atlantean balcony once was, the image alternating between Atlantis and the SGC gate room, but both were vacant. The emptiness was suffocating, the silence deafening. Dizziness overwhelmed him; drawing a sharp breath he looked back towards the ground, but saw nothing save an encouraging grey.

He sat bolt upright, panting, sweat trickling down his back, trying to orientate himself. He could make out the shape of the desk and reasoned it was his Atlantis quarters; and fell back onto the bed, utterly exhausted. His thoughts still racing and his heart pounding in his chest.

* * *

He made his way down to a secluded pier and lay down to watch the ocean birds soar high above Atlantis in the fading light. He yearned to fly again. The Puddle Jumpers were good but inertial dampeners took away the physical sensation, the feeling of 6Gs pressing against his body on a tight maneuver or the wind brushing of his face as he flew through the air while paragliding. Swooping, soaring, climbing, rising, higher, warmer, reaching for the sun. 

It reminded him of Icarus, flying on wings made with Wax, the freedom and the vulnerability, there was only so much John could escape from through flight and he knew it. There were only so many hours he could spend flying. He always came back to earth at some point; it was uncomfortable, like when he returned home after all those years to see the same flower beds and same color front door. Knowing how much had changed since he had last belonged there, wondering where he belonged now.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky, its strange ambient red tinted light burning their backs and making them sweat profusely under their full gear. Walking through the sea of long grass was tiring; frequently one of the team stumbled or fell into the mass of sticky fibrous leaves. Ford had said it was like wading through thick jelly at which point everyone had turned and stared at him, he didn't bother to explain the remark. A somber mood had settled over the team as they continued to trudge back towards the gate. 

They'd been searching the planet for ZPMs. These things were really like gold dust, thought Sheppard.

A butterfly landed in the long grass in front of them. Sheppard heard a rustle in the undergrowth and raising his hand, he signaled to everyone to be alert. P-90 raised he turned to investigate, just in time to see the Wraith stunners taking down the rest of his team in a haze of blue.

* * *

Walls, a damp surface, webbed windows, or were they doors? Gunfire outside, a hazy face. The acrid smell of battle. 

That is some rescue mission if I'm just coming round, Sheppard thought. But the paralysis indicated it was more than one stun he'd taken. Nothing worked, his eyes barely moved, he was relieved his breathing seemed to be unaffected, but it seemed detached from his mind. That was it, he was in his mind, alone, trapped, screaming in his head.

His vision began to clear, he waited for what seemed like hours, he saw the scenery change, still unable to move, he saw the Atlantis gate room and the corridors to the infirmary pass in a blur of urgency. Once in the infirmary he was rolled onto his back, left to stare at the infirmary ceiling. Finally Carson appeared, he was talking but Sheppard couldn't understand what he was saying. It didn't matter. He trusted Carson with his life. He'd had to on all too many occasions of late. With that he closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

The water was still, moonlight danced like glitter upon its surface. He caught sight of the shadow of a fish leaping back into the ocean. The moon was high above the ocean, an impassive observer to life on Atlantis. 

Time was a healer, old scars were testament to that fact, but the wounds always ached, and they were always raw at first. Looking up from the ocean he noted that the moon had disappeared behind a cloud, the night's sky was beautiful, pristine, never betraying the horrors it had witnessed over the millennia.

* * *

As Sheppard was leaving the Hive storage room the eyes stopped him. All the faces of the cocooned were almost completely obscured, but this one was not. Sheppard watched the eyes tracking his movements, pleading with him. The static crackled an urgent radio call, breaking his gaze he turned and ran from the room, P-90 ready, safety off. Leaving behind hundreds of humans marked for death by the Wraith, and now by him.

* * *

Leaning against the balcony railing John used his right hand to rub at the ache in his neck. It was a futile effort; the ache encompassed his shoulders and was paired with a massive tension headache. He sighed. It had been a long few weeks. He hadn't slept in well over 36 hours and was running on the fast fading ghost of caffeine. 

The truth was it was hard to sleep, hard to stomach his dreams. As much as the Athosians had absolved him of blame for waking the Wraith, for they knew it was a matter of when, not if, it was something that still chased him through his dreams at night. He played the first scene over in his mind, time and time again. Wondering how he could've acted, but as ever, hindsight was tainted; he'd since seen the full consequences of his actions, the deaths of civilians and colleagues.

He was haunted by Sumner's face, contorted with an agony he'd yet to fully comprehend. The dreams were merciless, the thoughts, the memories always ended the same way, a lone gunshot, a mercy killing and a falling corpse.

A marine passed the door, only glancing momentarily before continuing his walk. Most of Atlantis' personnel had gone to bed; the halls were quiet except for the odd marine on night watch. John turned back to look at the cloudy nights sky, it had a warm orange glow that reminded him of hot summer nights in the city. The tension in the air was palpable; he was waiting for the storm to break.

He felt a rain drop hit his arm, and others tickling his neck, with a sigh of relief the clouds let go of their load. He felt his clothes become sodden but didn't move, he let the rain wash him clean, as clean as he could ever be now.

* * *

The position of a leader was by nature an isolated one, one that commanded respect, sometimes fear, friendship was something not often afforded to those in command. 

Following the Chaya "incident" as Rodney had so neatly dubbed it, John had learnt of some of the details of ancient encounters at the SGC, in particular the then Major Carter's encounter with Orlin. Second-hand report details were little comfort in dealing with the aftermath, in so many respects he'd hoped that 'sharing' with Chaya would provide him with all the answers to his questions about the Ancients and this Galaxy, but he found the experience to be something of a double edged sword. Everything she had shared with him had only given more weight to his doubts about the benevolence of the Ancients. Yet the most startling feeling was one of a sense of loss. In sharing their innermost essence Chaya had been closer than anyone before. Now it was not a physical infatuation that made him desire her company, although Rodney vociferously begged to differ, John just wanted to be in the presence of someone who knew him so completely and truthfully.

He thought back to the test flights he had once made, he remembered the low passes through valleys, the occasional windswept house on the hillside, surrounded by sheep and very little else except for some scrub. Rarely had flying been as exhilarating, this was an occasion when battle was absent and he was instructed to test the capabilities of the machine he commanded, within reason. That element caused one too many fracas with the scientists and engineers who had built the helicopter and were measuring the readings, he had been told he was 'no longer needed' as a test pilot and would return to the US for active duty, after which he was posted to Afghanistan.

There was something about the sights he saw on those test flights, the sheer bleakness of that landscape that got under his skin; he had never forgotten that view of the white farm building, surrounded by open pasture, the hillside spotted with sheep the only life for miles around.

* * *

Sheppard pushed the food around his plate. Military rations had never exactly been gourmet food but he could stomach it, you had to living in another galaxy. Today he just didn't feel like it; he'd been in this restless state for a few weeks now, and the nightmares had been more intense than usual. Looking up from his thoughts he saw McKay approaching, no doubt like a vulture he was homing in on the uneaten food on his plate. John didn't want it anyway, standing up he handed McKay his plate, no argument, no discussion, and left the mess hall.

* * *

Raising his head, Sheppard saw McKay's blood-shot eyes, tears still streaming down his face. His mouth was moving forlornly, wordlessly, and it was then that Sheppard realized that the screams had ceased. Shifting his weight, Sheppard tugged at the ropes binding his hands and feet to the wall, and felt the burn of rope chafing against raw skin. 

He heard McKay's breath hitch again and again. The burns on McKay's thighs were such that he could barely stomach to look at them. Blood streamed from a cut above McKay's left eyebrow, the blood and tears mingling on his cheek.

The metal rods were currently heating in the fire in the corner of the room. Sheppard caught McKay's anguished blue eyes again just as the door creaked open.

* * *

He felt a cold rush in his veins and recognized the sting of a less than precise injection. Drifting in his mind, sensation faded, everything was drawn into a pinpoint of light. He heard a jumble of sounds, voices, Carson, but he was sure he heard a pained McKay among them before all thought dissolved.

* * *

Clouds shifted across the sky like whispers floating through an empty room. He watched clouds mutating, forming tall rolling peaks in the sky, like mountains, lit by the rising sun. The morning breeze was strong, refreshing. John sighed, he was exhausted, he'd spent another night tossing and turning between broken dreams, resigned to his wakefulness he'd made his way to this balcony to watch the sun rise. The nights on Atlantis seemed shorter than those of earth's temperate latitudes. During his time in Antarctica he'd been through the extremes of non-stop light and darkness. He remembered mornings, nights even, watching the sun bob along the horizon, never shifting far from its base, as though it was afraid to do so. He remembered the final time he saw the sun disappear beneath the horizon before what seemed like an endless night finally began.

* * *

The woman was holding a razor sharp blade to his neck. Sheppard raised his head and as his eyes met Ford's he felt the blade break the skin and the first bead of blood slick its way down his neck. Sheppard pressed his body harder into the wall trying to ease the pressure on his neck, looking up he met the woman's eyes. He saw the dark circles of sleepless nights under them and the red rimmed eyes of anguish, she was shaking, not with fear but anger. 

"Do you understand what you have done?"

Sheppard didn't reply, barely daring to move again in case the blade shifted. The images of a thousand horrific nightmares flicked through his vision: the first moment when he had seen the Wraith, the image of the compartments above the keeper's room coming alive with a thousand life sucking aliens, the fear on peoples faces as they fled the Wraith Darts, the complete and utter desolation of planets scorched bare.

"Do you understand what you have done?"

The woman eased the pressure of the knife to allow Sheppard to reply. He let his eyes meet hers again and it was as though she could see his soul and all the guilt that resided there.

* * *

A seagull like bird perched on a spire of Atlantis, watching the shoals of fish darting just beneath the surface. The bird patiently waited, as it had been doing for the past half hour, for a weak fish to break from the shoal. Penetrating the sea like a bullet it was in and out in seconds, returning to its perch to rip at its prey's flesh. 

John too had been watching patiently, quietly, he finally broke his gaze away from the bird and looked at the setting sun. He had been pondering the position of the observer for some time now, it was Chaya's punishment and in some way it was his too. For all his physical strength there was nothing he could do to stop the Wraith, even if they could protect Atlantis they couldn't stop the culling in the rest of the galaxy. He had watched helplessly as thousands were culled, unable to do anything but observe, the puddle jumper no match for the Wraith Darts. Watching was not something those in the military were used to, they were usually in action trying to effect change. John felt a sense of despair and helplessness burn deep inside.

The bird screeched, breaking John's train of thought. The clouds were thickening, obscuring the night's sky, sensing the imminent rain John left the balcony, heading to his quarters for a restless night.

* * *

He remembered holding the gun in his hand, firing bullet after bullet into Bob, waiting for his life to be put beyond reach. Sheppard's priorities were clear in his mind; he was here to protect his own, the Wraith were the enemy, this one a prisoner. He wondered if they even had any kind of society. They must because they had clothing, armies, technology, that was unless they were like the Goa'uld, scavengers. Did they show compassion or positive emotion towards each other? Did they even possess such capabilities? There must be more to their lives than feeding, but then weren't humans driven by a need for a reliable food supply, wasn't the establishment of agriculture one of the main reasons that allowed human civilizations to develop? 

The eyes in front of him widened, the nasal flare was meant to threaten him, yet Sheppard knew they could never hurt him, not on the other side of the force field. This one wouldn't have a name for now. He wasn't in the mood to taunt or tease.

Flickers of past encounters flashed through his mind. Lying paralyzed, the world out of focus, a disembodied wraith hand moving in for the kill, gunfire, rescue, and a surprise reprieve.

Looking at the Wraith in the cell he noted that the prisoner was tall, with long straight hair like the others, the pale complexion, the flowing cloak, it was the black markings along the jaw were what made this one visually distinctive. They all seemed to have the same uninspired repertoire of, "We're going to come for you and eat you" phrases to spout when interrogated.

Looking at the nostril holes before him flaring in impatience he caught himself as his hand closed around his 9mm strapped to his thigh, he knew he didn't have enough ammo to kill this Wraith. After all it had just fed, it was at its strongest now. It took all his resolve to turn away from the cage and leave the holding room, without having fired a single shot.

* * *

The sun was momentarily covered by a cloud, allowing shafts of amber light to spew from the edges across the ocean's surface. Sparkling like diamonds, the surface seemed so virginal, untainted by the horrors of death, or of life. He felt a breeze gently tickle his neck indicating the sun was going to slip beneath the horizon soon. 

The sunsets used to hold more power over him, they used to lift his mood. Now they only served to mark the passing time, it seemed that with each new sunset there was another new grave.

John held the metal dog tags tight in his hand. The bodies couldn't be buried on Atlantis, the dog tags were the only tokens of the lives lost he could see, hold, touch. He turned each tag over, reading the name carefully, remembering the hope, the potential lost. Some by accidents and horrific events, some in battle, but the largest number of lives had been taken by the Wraith. His shoulders seemed to burn with burden he carried, the guilt, the responsibility, the echoing nightmares that haunted his days.

His fingers lingered on the most recent additions, the metal surface tainted by the blood. He could picture them; he'd seen the photographs in the reports, the bodies unrecognizable, silent.

He felt a cool wind brush his neck, looking up he realized that the sun had long since set.

* * *

Fin. 


End file.
